


to be atlas

by picketfences (OnyxSphinx)



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Hypomania, M/M, auditory hallucinations, in which ben asks too much of himself, not that they had the term at the time but like. that's what it is, there’s some comfort too though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26704411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/picketfences
Summary: With the prospect of limited rations for the coming winter, Ben decides to take matters into his own hands.
Relationships: Caleb Brewster/Benjamin Tallmadge
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	to be atlas

**Author's Note:**

> huge disclaimer i know nothing about actual wheat planting i just did a cursory google search. also the hallucinations are based only on my own experience and may not necessarily reflect hallucinations among all bipolar people.

It starts with the letters. 

In retrospect, it seems like it always does, these days—with the letters. Letters, and missives, and orders for munitions or supplies that he knows will more likely than not be turned away, even as he is obligated ot write them, to spend ink on this terrible folly.

It’s a letter pertaining to grain supplies. They’ve run low, and it may only be late spring, but Washington is keen to have the men with at least proficient rations come winter, and, as the only one who isn’t already engaged with other, more pressing—more  _ official _ —matters, it has fallen to Ben to write the letters asking— _ begging _ —the few farms left on this side of New Jersey to supply them with the grain they so desperately need.

The ink is blurring before his eyes; and he finds his grip on the quill slipping, slipping, until—

“ _ Damnit _ ,” he hisses, as the tip of the quill skitters across the parchment, blotting the perfectly-inked  _ deeply _ he had carved into the yellow-brown. The ink is leaking, now, and he pulls the parchment away with a hasty hand, checking, hoping, and breathing a sigh of relief, shortly, when it hasn’t stained the desk. Thank God.

The letter is ruined, though, now; a waste of all that parchment, and for what? Nothing! 

They can so little afford the parchment, too—his mind snatches onto it and begins to tear at it, to worry it to frayed ends. They cannot afford any of this, can they? Not the grain, not the parchment, and certainly not the whole forsaken war, righteous though the cause may be.

Caleb, normally the one to calm him from such a tizzy, is gone on a scouting mission; and so instead, he is left with his own thoughts, wondering.

_ Well, if you can’t buy it, you ought’a make it, _ his mind’s version of Caleb proposes, ever-practical. Ben bares his teeth at his friend. “And what, praytell, am I meant to do with that?” he murmurs. “It’s not as if I have any knowledge of how to grow a crop.”

_ So then ask the men? _ Caleb says; brow raised.  _ They’ve all been farmers, save the Colonels, but I wouldn’t expect _ them _ to have time to talk about it. _

“Hamilton worked on a farm, I think,” he says; but purses his lips in thought. “But you’re probably right, I ought to ask some of the enlisted men. Though,” he chuckles, “what they’d think of a major talking to them about crop planting, and this late in the season...”

There’s the creak of too-dry leather as the other shifts, invisible.  _ They’ll just have t’ get used to it, eh? _ he replies.  _ And in the meantime, you ought’a get askin’ before the season  _ does _ get too late. _

He has a fair point there, Ben has to concede; for if he does not find out the information soon, it’ll be past planting season and there will be no hope of this venture ever coming to a head, to a success. 

He sets his quill down into the inkwell proper; a bit too hard and the ink splashes out onto his hand and speckles the desk. Oh well, naught to be done for that now he supposes, as he rises from the desk and stands, tugging at the front of his coat for a moment before letting it go with a gusty sigh. He opens the tent flaps to step out into the brisk weather; takes a few steps forward, eyes scanning.

“Pardon?” he ventures, sighting one of the men, who jerks his head in the major’s direction.

“Sir?” he asks.

“This may be a strange request,” Ben starts, “but do you happen to know how to farm wheat?”

The man—a private, Ben thinks, perhaps—starts slightly. “Sorry?” he asks, sounding puzzled. 

“Wheat, man,  _ wheat, _ ” Ben snaps; and then when he realises that it wasn’t a mishearing but rather confusions—arguably understandable—on the private’s part, he tempers his tone as well as he can. “Do you know how to farm wheat, private? Or know anyone who does?”

“Not much, apologies,” the private says. “I formed cauliflower, y’see. But it’s similar, I think. You till the land, and spread the seeds evenly.”

“Mm,” Ben hums. “Thank you, then.” 

And with that, he turns on his heel.

_ Not much to go off of, eh? _ Caleb asks, from somewhere to his left; and Ben resists the urge to bat away the whaler’s presence. Time has taught him it won’t do any good, regardless.  _ What  _ are _ you doing with that hatchet, Tallboy? You’ll chop off a leg, _ the man reprimands, a moment later.

Ben gives an irritated huff. “I’m going to clear a patch of the woods,” he says. “As much as I can, in the next two days. Then I’ll till the land, and sow the seed, and come autumn, the harvest—”

_ The harvest? Ben, don’t be absurd. _

“Don’t be absurd?” Ben parrots. “Oh, don’t  _ you _ be absurd. Now shut up and let me get to it.”

He can, in fact, contrary to what Caleb often likes to say, swing a hatchet; not perhaps as well as the whaler, and not with as pinpoint an accuracy when thrown, but he can swing it well enough to cut down a tree; and he does so; the work turning into a steady hum, the exertion warming him; and he has to peel off his coat and unbutton his waistcoat.

By the time the sun has begun to set, he’s felled four trees; fingers aching with the effort of it and callouses ripping and sweat drying on his brow, chest heaving.

He looks around him; taking in the carnage of it all, the branches and stumps; and growls, “Goddamnit. Only  _ four. _ ”

Caleb, deciding now’s the time to speak, says,  _ Hey, now, four’s a good number— _ but Ben hisses a sharp breath through his teeth and spits, “But it’s not  _ enough. _ ”

It’s not enough. He needs to have at least ten a day to have enough land cleared. Ten a day for four days—and the sun’s setting. Well—he’ll just have to work through the night, then. He’s nothing if not good at staying up—long nights studying at Yale taught him how.

He wipes his palms on his breeches and shifts his stance, shifts his grip on the handle of the hatchet, and takes the first swing at another tree; the wood splitting open just slightly, the bark gone to reveal pale wood; and then another, and another.

By the time the sun rises, he’s on his tenth; the birds calling around him, and the rustle of the leaves in the breeze broken only by the steady rhythm of  _ thunk, thunk, thunk _ of the hatchet into the trunk of the tree.

His grip is surer now; he has established a pattern; knows what he’s doing. He’s making progress—not as fast as he’d like, but it’ll have to be enough. It has to be enough.

There’s a final crack, and the tree falls, boughs breaking as it crashes to the ground. The trunk still remains—he’ll need to dig them up, he realises. Better get to that, then.

“What in God’s name are you doing, Tallboy?”

Ben doesn’t deign to answer; he’s already told him twice in the last twelve hours; Caleb hardly needs a refresher. Instead he just re-buttons up his waistcoat and picks up his coat from where it’s fallen to the ground, and pulls it on.

There’s a hand on his shoulder; sudden; and Ben flinches. “Hey,” Caleb says, again, “ _ Ben. _ ”

Touch. He closes his eyes. That’s new. “You know, I thought you were meant to stay incorporeal,” Ben says, flatly, shrugging off the touch. 

There’s a startled sound from behind him, which Ben ignores, heading back for camp. He needs that shovel, after all. “Ben, come on,” Caleb says, “quit it. What’s gotten into ya?”

Ben whirls on him. “ _ You’re not here, _ ” he hisses, before realising he’s staring at a fully-fleshed, bearded Caleb Brewster; too real to be a figment of his imagination. Sound, yes, and maybe even touch he can imagine, but this? No.

“...oh,” he says, numbly, after a beat. 

Caleb, in a moment of uncharacteristic movement, reaches forward and grasps his jaw; the other hand reaching for his forehead. “Are you alright? Are you sick, Tallboy? No—no fever.” He frowns.

“I could have told you that,” Ben finds himself snapping. “I’m fine, Caleb. Just—busy.”

“Chopping down trees?” Caleb scoffs.

“ _ Yes. _ And now I need to dig up the trunks, so I’d thank you if you’d let me go,” Ben retorts, and takes a step back.

Caleb follows; keeping his hand pressed to Ben’s jaw. “You’re not going anywhere until you explain what this is all about,” he says, firmly. “And no excuses, Tallmadge. You tell it to me straight, understood?”

Ben purses his lips; but with Caleb, it’s never been a matter of  _ if _ but rather of  _ when _ . “We need grain,” he says, finally. “I was clearing land to plant some.”

Caleb breaks into laughter. “ _ You? _ ” he manages, finally. “Ben, don’t get me wrong, but—”

“My requests aren’t working,” Ben cuts in. “I had to take action, alright? Isn’t that what you’re always saying to do? To do something? Well, I was  _ trying to. _ ” He can feel the frustration leaking into his tone, the words rapid-fire, but he can’t bring himself to care; even as Caleb’s eyes widen slightly.

“Hey...hey,” Caleb says, slowly, and moves his free hand to Ben’s arm. “Let’s get you to camp, okay, major?”

“Fine,” Ben says. “But only so I can get that shovel.”

“Sure,” Caleb agrees, and steers him towards his tent. Ben finds himself letting him; wants to protest but the words seem too hard to grasp at the moment; so he’s pressed into his cot, practically manhandled by the smaller man. “Have you even slept?” Caleb asks. “You’re covered in dirt and there’s leaves and twigs in your hair.”

“...no,” Ben admits; feeling his cheeks burn in shame; but Caleb just sighs.

“Alright,” he says, and presses Ben back so he’s laying dow; tugs the blanket up over him; pulls his chair from the desk over to the cot and sits, tugging Ben’s hair out of the braid and running his finger through it; picking out bits of leaves and twigs. “You get to sleep now, alright? Or at least shut your eyes,” he amends, when Ben starts to protest. “I’ll have some of the men take over the task of clearing it for you, alright?”

That’s a lie; they both know it; but with the other’s fingers combing through his hair, Ben suddenly feels the exhaustion that has been absent the last few days; and he finds he cannot protest; so he just says, “Alright,” and lets his head loll back on the thin pillow.

“Good,” Caleb says, firmly; and gently untangles a knot of hair; one hand coming up to brush a strand of hair out of Ben’s face; and he leans forward, pressing his lips to Ben’s forehead in a brief moment. “Now close your eyes, major.”

Ben obeys; eyes slipping shut; and tries his best to sink into the odd, unfamiliar comfort.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [major-721](https://major-721.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
